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Robert is a badass who treats killing gods and slaying demons like just another Thursday. Did you know it was inspired by Thairon, the protagonist of my original story, Arrival : Ruptures, long before I began to write it? Comments, likes and reviews are appreciated. Here are the links for : AO3, Spacebattles, Royal Road and Webnovel.
—
Asgard
Korryn sat on the ground, fanning himself.
"Doctor, how is he?" Tyrion asked, handing a glass of iced water to the man. He has been working for days, and they were desperate for a good word.
"No matter what, we can't reduce the fever. At this point, he is burning with heat far beyond what any man should be able to produce."
"It is not a mere fever," Caerindra said, stepping forward to lay her palm on the door.
"My lady?"
"It is the sword. Your lord has touched its power. Either he takes it, or it burns him from within."
Korryn blinked repeatedly. "Anything we can do to help?" Magic would explain why the ice blocks they had laid over Robert melted as if on open fire.
"Nothing except to wait."
—
His skin was melting.
Or at least, that's what it felt like. The blood in his veins was boiling, and he was suffocating. Yet, there was a familiar feeling inside the sea of red he found himself in. An old friend he had not seen in years, a food he had not tasted in quite a while, and a home that he last returned to ages ago.
He sought that sensation amid the heat.
—
Tyrion grasped his head between his palms. No matter how careful they were, word of Robert's illness had gotten out. Citizens were worried, the Targaryens were celebrating quietly, and the affairs were tense. Dozens of envoys, along with noble ladies and princesses from all the way to Yi-Ti, were persistently requesting audiences.
He had no answers to give.
Days blended together between work, which brought more pressure now that Robert wasn't here to set everyone straight. Each passing day made Asgard's rivals and enemies bolder. He could not summon the dragons as a show of force.
At the end of the week, while having managed to find the time to sleep, Tyrion woke up to the light of the sun flashing through the slightly parted curtain. He stumbled out of the bed, opening the window to see a blazing pillar set the sky afire.
Telling his wife to stay inside, he took the nearest coat he could find.
—
"What is happening here?" Tyrion asked, filling his burning lungs with air before speaking.
"We don't fucking know," Sandor swore, waiting.
"Lady Caerindra, might you be able to offer any ideas?"
She rolled her shoulders, wings twitching for a moment. "Either your lord succeeded and he will be well or he did not and is already dead."
"I regret asking," Tyrion mumbled, averting his gaze.
A guard approached, saluting. "My lord, people gather outside the keep. What shall we say to them?"
"Tell them to wait. Lord Robert will not let us down."
No sooner than the words left his mouth, the width of the pillar began to reduce. Intense flames retreated slowly, letting the night sky slowly take its place over the city once more. They watched with gaping mouths and still breaths until the last embers faded out.
"Who is going to enter?" Davos asked.
Sandor kicked the crackling door open. It was a wonder it hadn't caught on fire yet. A wave of heat surged out, needling their skin with sharp, pinprickling warmth. He covered his face, pushing inside the bedroom.
"My lord, are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just have someone get me clothes. I am naked here."
Guards rushed to find servants with his order. The pillar of fire, which had annihilated the roof of the infirmary building, had the whole city awake. The workers of the castle were no exception.
His wardrobe was raided for clothes, and Sandor personally carried them inside the infirmary. When he left, it was with a frozen face.
The short wait as Robert dressed felt like hours to the restless people. Tyrion kept pacing up and down, while Sandor snapped at every little sound.
When he finally left the burned building, it was in a manner that was so Robert.
"I am definitely going to need a larger wardrobe," he said, fidgeting with his clothing, which was a size too small.
Davos sucked in sharply, while Sandor muttered a curse. Tyrion's eyes were wide, and the guards backed away in fear.
"M-my lord, what happened to you?"
He shook the blood-red crystalline sword in his hand. "It's the sword. Don't I look great?" He grinned, flexing his biceps, displaying his body. Even Sandor was at least a couple of inches shorter than him now, and his muscled body, easily the strongest one in all of Westeros, looked greater than before.
Though, they were not the most important changes.
Doctor Korryn had revealed his left eye and left leg were beyond his capabilities to fix. The left side of his vision would be blurry, and a permanent limp would follow him forever.
His eye was gone now; instead, a crimson orb burned over a field of orange within the socket. It moved like an eye, moving simultaneously with the right eye. The leg was much the same. There was no sign of a limp, not even a stumble.
Even the scar around his neck had disappeared, leaving its place to flawless skin.
Korryn was quick to snap out of his stupor. He walked and knelt before Robert to examine the leg.
He sat down, pulling the leg of his trousers up. When it got stuck, he tore it off, allowing the doctor to touch the flesh. He pressed firmly, feeling the state of the bone.
"Fascinating. I thought nothing short of a miracle could heal your leg. It appears you have found it, my lord."
"Great, now can someone bring me food? I am starving."
—
Korryn had insisted on running more tests, starting with his eye. The vision was perfectly normal to Robert. He would say it was even better than before. The leg had passed through every activity, and each one was meant to put more pressure on it than before.
He was declared healthy.
As the almost seven-foot man gorged himself on a small feast, Tyrion had sent criers to the city. Word of Robert's good health reached every corner of the city. At noon, the Lord of Asgard himself would appear before the people.
Seeing their sorry state, he had ordered them to rest.
Except for one person.
"Of all the things to fight, you had to choose a god? Are you out of your damn mind?" Rhaelle screamed, trying to reach for her grandson's ear.
"I am fine, aren't I?"
"Because of this magic on you. Do not think I was deaf to your doctor's words concerning your state."
"All's well that ends well."
His grandmother's lips trembled. She clenched her fists, raised her head, and screamed her frustrations over him to the heavens.
"Think about it this way: R'hllor's dead; I am not."
She only screamed more.
—
Once the attention over his miraculous healing had settled down, mostly because their sleep was cut short, he finally had some alone time.
The power of the sword, the crystallized remains of the souls that R'hllor had consumed, along with a portion of his divine essence, now responded to his command.
He held the sword from the blade part, treating it more like a staff. A thrust forward and a mental command fired a beam from the pommel that burned through several training posts. He grinned, slackening his grip. The blade slipped forward, and he grabbed it by right at the tip.
The crystal structure turned into liquid flames with his swing. The rigid body turned flexible, and the flaming whip sliced the wooden posts in half. Each side of the cut was burned to charcoal.
He explored the newfound strength until it was time for his appeal to the citizens.
—
"People of Asgard," Robert raised both hands, silencing the cheering crowd. "There have been concerns over my health. I assure you, I am as healthy as a war horse." He had let them chant his name, along with whistles and applause, but the crowd had no intention of stopping.
Choruses rose in groups.
"My latest enemy, R'hllor, the so-called God of Light, has fallen at my hands. I have seized his powers." He pulled the sword out, raising it to air, "since it would be a shame to let it go to waste."
His left eye had already drawn too much attention. He wanted to come clear with the matter.
"In honor of this great victory, not just mine, but all of Asgard's, I have ordered a citywide celebration. We shall eat, drink, and enjoy to our heart's content."
The cheers returned with tenfold intensity.
"I know, I know, you love me, and I love you all back."
He basked in the cheerful shouts of his name for a time.
—
While the preparations for the celebration were underway, he had one last matter to take care of.
He had all the envoys gathered in the Administrative Hall, seated around a long table, with him at the head. Twelve envoys, from Braavos to Qarth, were waiting for him to start. Only the Braavosi and the Qartheen envoys weren't avoiding his eyes.
"I have heard some very troubling words." His frosty face swept over the table. He rose, sharp and quick, startling some of the envoys. He gathered his hands at the back, walking to the left side of the table with slow and deliberate steps.
"Such as," he swiftly bent down right over the shoulder of the Myrish envoy, "prayers for my death and celebrations over my crippling wounds," he said, voice even. It terrified the man more than any scream or threat would.
"We would not dare, my lord," the trembling man stuttered out.
"Truly?" he asked, trying to force his smile down.
The envoy shook his head so vigorously I half expected him to hurt his neck. "Truly."
He patted the man on the shoulder once, continuing to walk. "I will certainly remember your words."
"What about the rest of the Free Cities?" he asked, stopping to glance at the remaining envoys. One of them jumped to his feet, arms stuck to his side, shouting the first couple words.
"My lord, I give you my word; should anyone attempt to pray for your death, they will be executed."
"Now, now, no need for that. A simple warning should suffice. Though," he appraised the man bearing classic Valyrian features, "who are you, exactly?"
"I am Molero of Volan Theres."
"Ah," he said, remembering the name after a beat of silence, "one of the towns of Volantis, yes?"
It was a town of Volantis but had a larger population than any city in Westeros.
"Indeed."
"Speaking of Volantis, I should clarify what truly transpired there to avoid confusion," he said, standing at the other end of the table.
"You see, Melisandre of Asshai has been trying to assassinate me with shadow magic for a while. I came to learn it was under the orders of R'hllor," he said, resuming his round around the table.
"In an effort to seek a way to thwart her plans, I and my trustworthy guard," he gestured to Sandor, who was waiting at the side of his seat, "journeyed to Asshai. I shall spare you the details, but I have discovered a way to slay a god. It required me to journey to Stygai, the corpse city. There, I discovered the heart of a necromancer, a foul sorcerer who raised the dead. I took his heart, which summoned his spirit back. Turns out, the shadows in the Shadow Lands were actually his spirit, torn apart once his body could not handle the power. Hence, once I vanquished the necromancer, the Shadow Lands were no more."
"T-truly, your bravery is beyond mere humans like us," the Lyseni envoy squeaked out.
"How kind of you to say that."
"Following my success in Stygai, I made my way to the Temple of the Lord of Light. I discovered that R'hllor was beneath the temple, waiting in the catacombs to devour enough souls and ascend to a higher state."
"I outwitted him, and once he lowered his guard, I stabbed him in the heart," he explained as the envoys listened with rapt attention.
"I had not expected him to blow up and destroy Volantis."
"My bad." He leaned over Molero's shoulder this time, almost whispering the word.
He took his seat once again. "Any questions?" The envoys glanced at one another but did not rise to speak.
"No? Very well then."
"Now," he clapped his hands, startling the envoys once again, "with Volantis gone, the towns it once controlled will need new management, correct?" Molero nodded at his words slowly, eyes darting around.
"I believe Volan Theres should take that role," he said, gesturing to the envoy.
He was still for a moment before leaping to his feet again. "A wise decision, my lord, we will not let you down."
"I am sure you won't. Who else wants to hear another wise decision of mine?" He gazed across the table once more. In an instant, every envoy raised a hand.
"Excellent."
"You see, I believe that slavery is a blight on humanity and should be banned forever. In fact, it should be declared one of the gravest crimes. Every slave should be set free. Every slaver who does not do so should be executed."
The Braavosi envoy's eyes sparkled, a clear contrast to the rest who appeared ready to object.
He tapped the floor with his sword, smothering the embers of complaints before they could turn into flames. "Isn't this a wise decision too?"
"It is my lord," the Qohorik envoy said after raising his hand to speak. "Yet, it will ruin our trade and plunge the cities into chaos, giving more opportunities to the slavers."
"I know. Which is why the Asgard Trading Company shall invest in your cities generously, provided you sign the Declaration of Human Rights, which I shall deliver to you as soon as it is ready."
"Truly, your wisdom knows no bounds," the Braavosi envoy said, speaking for the first time.
"You are dismissed then. The details will be forwarded to you at a later date. In the meantime, enjoy the countless bounties of Valhalla."
—
Sandor was howling once the envoys had left. Robert too chuckled every time he remembered the terrified faces.
"They looked ready to shit themselves on the spot."
"I am sure they were too scared to do it here. With how fast some ran, they are definitely heading to the privy."
His words only made Sandor cackle more.
The second part of the meeting was less annoying. The girls from Yi-Ti were gorgeous Asian princesses, though the mindless giggling and eye batting didn't exactly endear any to him.
They were promptly sent away.
The third and final piece of business he had was a letter from Asshai. The citizens wished to rename the Shadow Lands and requested permission to use his name. He, in his infinite generosity, allowed it.
Hence, Robert Lands was born in far Essos, thousands of miles away from Asgard.
—
In the next chapter:
"The preparations are proceeding well, Your Grace," Wyman said, wiping the sweat on his forehead.
"Some good tidings, at last," Rhaegar thought, waving the Master of Coin away.
"Yes. Such a pity Robert did not die."
"Don't," Rhaegar growled at Varys, holding his head between his hands, squeezing to crush the developing ache, "utter his name."
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